London, Kansas
by Enkou Sokugetsu
Summary: Things happen when and where you least you expect them to. [AU, PruIta, Shonen Ai, Yaoi, Romance]


**_Author:_** Enkou Sokugetsu

**_Title:_** London, Kansas

**_Fandom: _**Hetalia

_**Genre:**_ Romance, sort of slice of life, AU

**_Characters:_** Prussia (Gilbert), N. Italy (Feliciano). Human names used.

_**Pairings:** _PruIta (Prussia x Italy)

**_Rating:_** M-ish. I am not that descriptive, and there are just a few bad words.

**_Summary:_** Things happen when and where you least you expect them to. [PruIta, Shonen Ai, Yaoi, Romance]

**_Disclaimer:_** Hetalia is not mine. But I'm Italian, heck, this must count as something, right? :D

_**Special Thanks**:_ to my auntie, for beta-ing all my works, this included!

**_Dedicated to:_** my auntie, the one who loves PruIta! I seriously don't like the pairing, but, oh, well - I never really have control on what I write!  
Also dedicated to all the people in Kansas!

**_Notes: _**English is not my native language. If you spot any mistakes, please do tell me and I'll do my best to correct them!

_Here we go._

_I haven't published anything in a very long time!_

_Inspired by a prompt found on the internet._

Dedicated to my auntie!  
(can't hurt to repeat that)

_NOTES: "If you were born round, you can't die square" - it's the exact translation of an Italian saying ("Sei nasci tondo, non puoi morire quadrato"), which basically means that, no matter how hard you try to conceal it, your true nature will eventually show.  
Also, I am Italian - as in, born and raised here - this ff doesn't mean to be derogative of Kansas as a state, I just used the first state that came into my mind, which is not usually considered an "expat place" - like Cali, or NJ. So, much love to all the people in Kansas!_

_Enjoy, and let me know if you liked it!_

~Enkou Sokugetsu

_**London, Kansas**_

"Damn, damn, damn!"

As he kicked the obstinately unresponsive vending machine yet one more time, Feliciano Vargas thought he was simply going to die right there, in a cold street forgotten by God and the Devil alike, somewhere in the middle of the American countryside.

Maybe, moving from Italy to pursue his musical career had been a terrible idea.

And – maybe, of course – picking up a remote town in damn _Kansas_, stereotypically working part-time in the worst, dirtiest greasy spoon around wasn't exactly how things were supposed to be, was it?

He hated to admit it, but Romano, his older brother, had been absolutely right.

He should have "toned down his ambitions", he should have chosen to attend a better University, graduating in something useful, to help out his family with their local business.

Just like his sibling – expert accountant and manager – had done.

But, like they say in Italy, "if you were born round, you can't die square".

And, most definitely, Feliciano was born round – even if, for most of his life, he had done his best to conceal it.

He had met everyone's expectations, he had been meek, he had been obedient.

Until, at some point, he had found himself laying awake in his bed, wondering what really mattered at the end of the day – pleasing everyone, or catching his only chance to pursue his dreams?

So, he had left.

He had bought a one-way ticked for the US, he had packed a few clothes and his guitar, and had ran away to attend a college on a scholarship for "musical skills".

In damn, cheap Kansas, since he couldn't afford anything else.

Sigh.

What a failure he was.

A total, utter, all-encompassing failure.

At the very least, had he listened to his family, he wouldn't be there, now, lost on his way back from the umpteenth disastrous audition for a band, with a flat tire and dead phone battery.

Oh, and unable to use the only fucking sign of civilization he had found in half a mile, namely a call box, because the stupid vending machine next to it had swallowed his last five dollars, without giving him the damn phone card he needed.

Fantastic.

Simply fantastic.

He was so busy venting his frustration by kicking the stupid machine, and his useless car, and the goddamn ground that he hadn't noticed at all the two big, round lights approaching him.

"You're out of luck, buddy. That fucking thing is out of work since 1987."

* * *

Barely lit by just the lights of his car and a blinking streetlamp, the young man's white hair and red eyes gleamed almost sinisterly, making him look like a vampire.

A metal, hard-core vampire, judging from his tight fitting black jeans, military boots and leather jacket.

For a brief moment, the Italian thought he had met a psychotic killer, ready to just rob him of his last few cents, eviscerate him and dump his body in an abandoned canal – after all, he had ended up in a place that had come straight from a horror movie, so he could as well fancy an appropriate conclusion for his adventure, right?

Not quite.

Because, in reality, that bizarre man didn't look like a murderer, nor a criminal, nor whatever.

In fact, Gilbert Weilschmidt – that was his name – seemed nice.

Extremely nice.

He explained how the nearest village was a ridiculously small handful of houses – pompously named _London_ – a few miles south from there. But, sadly, London had no car garages, so Feliciano would need to wait until morning, reach another, bigger place whose name he didn't understand, to have his car towed and fixed.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

"But, boy, maybe you're not completely out of luck. I live in London, and I can give you a lift to the nearest mechanic tomorrow. As for tonight, either you freeze out here, or you can sleep at my place. I'm not psycho, I swear. You can stay on the couch."

Another time, another scene, and Feliciano Vargas would have turned down such an offer, out of sheer common sense. Because come on, trusting an unknown man dressed in leather, going to his place, in the middle of the night... it sounded pretty foolish, didn't it?

But...

What other options did he have?

Spending the night alone in the middle of the countryside sounded much more dangerous, somehow.

So, smothering that little voice in the back of his head that kept telling him what a terrible idea it was, he just hopped on Gilbert's car – a black Corvette, it seemed – desperately hoping his name wouldn't be on the first page of the local newspapers in a few days.

* * *

Surprisingly, the trip was rather pleasant.

That weird man was chatty, and fun to talk to – and then, it looked like they had a lot in common.

Gilbert too, in fact, was a musician, and he occasionally played the drums in a few hard rock bands.

He was 26, a second-generation German, had a younger brother, and had quit his studies because he couldn't care any less about becoming a doctor like his parents wanted.  
They wanted a better life for him, because they were immigrants, and they had to sweat a lot to get a house, and a decent income.

But Gilbert wanted to play the drums, period.

How similar to certain, dark-haired Italian, indeed.

Even his house didn't seem too scary.

It was small, and a little old, and the front garden was a mess.

But it was clean inside, and it didn't smell like a place apt for homicides, or satanic rituals – even if wasn't that always the case?

Bad things tended to happen where you least expected them to happen.

"Make yourself comfortable." the albino – because he was an albino, right? - said, casually, as soon as he shut the front door close, trapping the Italian inside of his rushed decision once and for always "Take a shower, if you want, I can lend you some clean clothes. Oh, and there is some food in the fridge. Mashed potatoes and some leftover burgers – not great, but better than starving right? There's also a six-pack of beer."

Again, had the circumstances been just the slightest bit different, he would have refused.

He would have just curled on the sofa, silently, and he would have spent the whole night with an eye cracked open, just in case he was going to be assassinated, or something.

But, grimly, his logic and smartness had probably been left inside of his car, together with its flat tire and his five dollars in the vending machine.

Feliciano accepted the shower.

He accepted that, and the clean clothes, and he didn't even panic while washing himself, he didn't even think he could be slaughtered any minute, and no one would know.

He just... scrubbed his skin as hard as he could, attempting to remove any remnants of that horrible day – the failed audition, the tire, the dusty road in the middle of nowhere.

Everything.

And then his stomach grumbled, and he should have said no to that weird-looking blob of potatoes and burnt-down meat, but to Hell with that.

If he hadn't been killed in a tiny, secluded shower upstairs, some horrible food wouldn't have knocked him out for sure.

It actually didn't taste as bad as he'd figured.

"So you're a guitarist..." Gilbert started as they both sat on an old, worn-out sofa, plates precariously balanced on their laps "One of the bands I play with was looking for a stable guitarist, not too long ago. Their man got a chick pregnant, and he literally left the state. And the replacement they've found sucks dick big deal. Have you ever played metal? You know, Rammstein, or Metallica, or Iron Maiden. I could set you up a meeting, or something."

* * *

How things rolled down from there, Feliciano Vargas had no clue.

Maybe it was because nothing at all had gone the right way, on that stupid day of October, or maybe because he had decided to try out beer on a whim, and he had never drank alcohol before.

Or, still, it could be because Gilbert had found his reaction to his first mouthful of bubbly, bitter liquid "the cutest one ever".

In any case, they had kissed.

Once, twice, three times.

Then, the abominable mingle of starch and beef smeared over chipped plates had been sent flying across the room as the men both rolled on the sofa.

Their clothes followed soon after.

Their shirt first, then their pants – and with a lack of hesitance that scared the Italian shitless, their undergarments too had been thrown away, leaving them sweaty, and naked, and _horny_.

Feliciano had never been with a man.

Nor with a woman, truth to be told, even if his – rather innocent, he was going to discover – fantasies were mostly populated by toned, muscled chests and not by oversize boobs.

Was he gay?

He had no clue. He just liked to think he was married to music, somehow, and the fact of being 22 and still a virgin hadn't daunted him at all.

Until that very night, of course.

In just a few hours, he became able to associate sensations and feelings, and scents to what had been just empty words and gestures before – handjob, blowjob, licking, touching, squeezing.

Fingering.

Oh, fingering.

He had figured that putting something up there would be much more painful, and uncomfortable, but with all the nice words the albino whispered, with his gentle, careful movements, it wasn't too bad, no.

He really couldn't see why people complained about it, really.

At least, until the fingers were replaced by a dick, and well, then he suddenly _could_ understand.

Quite well.

It hurt, and then it was good, and then it hurt even more, and then it was heaven.

On and off, up and down.

In and out.

They had sex four times, that night.

Much to his surprise, loving, sweet Feliciano Vargas realized he liked it better from behind – even more if it was a little rough.

* * *

In the end, he had been forced to accept another shower, in the morning, and more clean clothes.

And, even if Gilbert himself slipped inside of the small cubicle – how stupid had Feliciano been, thinking he would be killed just twelve hours before – this time he just gave the Italian a long, luscious handjob.

So good, so skilled, so wrong and unexpected – not that the Italian cared, of course.

"Last night was your first time, wasn't it? I hope I didn't let you down, boy."

Oh, definitely not.

The boy – and his little self too – had been barely down at all, "last night".

Once they were both dressed and clean, the weird, red-eyed man kept his promise.

Feliciano hopped again on the black Corvette – this time with a fairly sore behind, and a whole new set of ideas in his brain – and he was driven to that bigger town whose name he still couldn't remember.

They found a mechanic.

They drove back to that dusty, stupid road in the middle of nowhere and forgotten by the Devil and God alike.

His car looked even dirtier and crankier, now that the sun was shining.

Once the tire was replaced, Gilbert Weilschmidt just stretched out his hand.

"It was nice to meet you, boy. What's your name again?"

Oh, right.

They had had sex, he had given that weird man his first time, and he hadn't even told him his name.

How... rude? Stupid? Rushed?

It wasn't like him at all, and his brother wouldn't let him hear the end of it, if he knew.

And Feliciano couldn't care any less.

"Feliciano. F-Feliciano Vargas."

"Well, Feliciano Vargas, I wish you good luck. Maybe we'll meet on a stage, next time."

Yes, maybe.

Or maybe not.

The next day the Italian was driving back again to London, Kansas, a microscopic place that indeed carried a name much too pompous for being just a handful of stinky, old houses abandoned somewhere along Interstate 35.

But, as he had already mused, things happen when and where you least you expect them to, and so, for Feliciano Vargas, that pretentiously named village had now become exciting and endearing. Because his music career sucked, his job sucked, much of his life sucked – but maybe in London, Kansas, he had found something much more valuable.

_**-The End-**_


End file.
